


Our House

by kalipeda



Series: The Magic of Us. [3]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Depression, Depressive Episode, Found Family, M/M, Soft Boys, no magic, no magic just friends to lovers, queliot week: day 3 prompt: neighbors, taking care of each other, the whole gang is there the rest just don't have much dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 03:41:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19287391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalipeda/pseuds/kalipeda
Summary: “Um. Are you okay?” Quentin was just heading up the steps to his new apartment, when he heard a rustling coming from one of the decorative bushes. His initial instinct had been “giant rat,” and then after hearing a quiet groan, “people fucking.” The development of rather insistent cursing had his brow furrowing in concern, though.“Oh, just — peachy,” came the unsteady reply.___________In which Quentin and Eliot live next door to each other and gradually, easily fall in love.





	Our House

**Author's Note:**

> Queliotweek day 3: neighbors! 
> 
> As all my fics for this series ~ not overly plotty, and strictly quentin/eliot centered; some details on the rest of the gang, but more in passing. 
> 
> This fic explicitly features a depressive episode, though I tried not to be too "heavy" with it. More notes on that at the end.
> 
> Shout out to the mods/organizers!

“Um. Are you okay?” Quentin was just heading up the steps to his new apartment, when he heard a rustling coming from one of the decorative bushes. His initial instinct had been “giant rat,” and then after hearing a quiet groan, “people fucking.” The development of rather insistent cursing had his brow furrowing in concern, though.

“Oh, just — peachy,” came the unsteady reply.

Quentin took another step, half turned away from the bush. Now that he was paying attention, he could hear the unmistakable sound of a baseline pumping behind the door of the apartment across the hall from his. If he were to go around back, he’d probably see people smoking on the balcony, red solo cups littering the lawn where they’d fallen below. 

Quentin had only been at the new apartment for a week, but he already had learned that his neighbors were the partying type. 

Most people would have been bothered by the incessant noise at all hours of the night, but Quentin was a reclusive insomniac. Instead, he found the signs of life outside his still and empty apartment to be weirdly comforting.

Something he should probably bring up with his therapist, next session. 

But still, just because he found awkward reassurance in his neighbor’s activities didn't mean he wanted to actively _participate_ in them — even if that meant just fetching a drunk partier out of the shrubbery. 

He took another step.

Another curse echoed behind him.

“Dammit,” Quentin muttered to himself, lowering his messenger back to the ground, and backtracking his way over. “You sure you’re okay?” he asked again, parting branches and craning his neck until he was able to catch sight of long limbs and curly, dark hair. “Oh. It’s you.”

The person in question’s neck tilted back, adam’s apple bobbing, to reveal high cheekbones and a loose smile, “Hello!” he answered cheerily. “Who are you?”

“I’m your neighbor,” Quentin grimaced, “we haven’t met yet.”

“Oh, definitely not. I would have remembered a face like yours,” his neighbor slurred seriously, not making any move to try and remove himself from the bush.

Both apartment dwellers were quiet an moment. 

“Right,” Quentin fidgeted with the hem of his sweater. “So, um, did you want to. Like. Have some help?”

“Hm?” his neighbor blinked a few times, as if coming out of a deep thought, only to look around himself with a frown. “Oh. I’m in a bush.”

“Yeah.”

“How did I get in a bush?”

“I’m not really sure about that.”

“Oh. That’s okay,” he waved a hand, clutching an unlit cigarette. “Aha!” he exclaimed on catching sight of it moving past his face, and began patting down his black vest. “Just need…” he trailed off into grumbled curses, “where is the damn thing.”

Starting to put things together, Quentin stepped back from the bush and trailed his glance along the ground, reaching down to pick up a shiny silver zippo when it caught his eye. “Looking for this?” he asked, parting back the branches once more.

“Huh?” his neighbor looked up blankly, cigarette dangling uselessly from his lips, both hands fruitlessly searching his pockets. “Oh, you angel, you!” he made grabby hands, reaching up for the light.

“About being in a bush, still,” Quentin retracted the zippo, sliding it into his back pocket for the meanwhile. “Did you want to first —“ he thumbed over his shoulder.

His neighbor dropped his hands into his lap. “It’s just —“ he swallowed thickly. “Things are awfully wobbly, at the moment.”

“Pretty sure that’s why you’re in the bush in the first place,” Quentin huffed a soft laugh.

“I think you’re right,” the neighbor nodded seriously. “What’s your name, again?” he quirked an eyebrow.

“I never gave it.”

“Manners dictate you introduce yourself on first meeting, which you didn’t do. I was giving you a gentleman’s out,” his neighbor grinned crookedly, seeming suddenly far less drunk. “I’m Eliot, by the way.”

“How generous,” Quentin tucked a falling bit of bang behind is ear and shifted from one foot to the other. “Um. I’m Quentin.”

“Quentin!” Eliot enthused, clapping his hands once, “How delightful. Now Q, be a dear and help me up, hm? This cig isn’t going to smoke itself.”

Quentin did just that by clasping both of Eliot’s hands tightly and heaving. He only stumbled a little when the taller — much taller, wow — man catapulted into him with the force of the heave. Stumbled a little more when he felt Eliot’s hand snake down into his back pocket to retrieve the zippo lighter, departing with a friendly pat to his ass-cheek. 

“Thanks ever so,” Eliot grinned from where he leaned heavily into Quentin’s side, before staggering back a few steps and spreading his legs wide for stability, like a pirate aboard his deck.

Quentin waited a minute, then two, to make sure there wouldn't be anymore falling into bushes, before making his way back to the stairs with a shake of his head.

“Hey neighbor!” 

He stopped stooped over to pick up his bag, and turned his head to look back over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Don’t be such a stranger. I see your light on when I come out here to smoke,” Eliot tilted his head towards the currently darkened window. That’s exactly how Quentin had recognized him in the first place, after catching sight of his tall form stood on the walkway, exhaling plumes of smoke, through the glass more than once. “Feel free to stop by, if you’re up. The door’s always open.”

Quentin knew he wouldn’t be taking Eliot up on his offer, but he was touched by the gesture anyway. “Thanks,” he smiled shyly, and Eliot positively beamed up at him.

“See you soon, Q.”

“Yeah. See you,” he mumbled before escaping the rest of the way up the stairs and into the silence of his apartment. 

x

After that first encounter, Quentin started running into Eliot on the front walk quite often. 

At first, they just exchanged casual pleasantries — about the weather, politics, the asshole in 3a who let his dog leave a mess all over the complex’s lawns. 

Gradually, though, they started to have actual conversations. 

Eliot asked him why he was always coming home so late, and Quentin explained how he was a part time graduate student. That he worked in an office full time during the day and took night classes. That he spent the hours afterwards completing his studies at the campus library because he had trouble sleeping anyway. 

Quentin asked Eliot if he had a job. He worked from home for some type of web-based social platform. “But my true calling is hosting our nightly soirees,” he winked. 

That was one more thing Quentin learned about — Eliot’s roommate, and co-host, Margo. 

She came tearing out of the apartment one night, dressed in nothing but an absurdly short kimono and heels, screeching for Eliot, only to draw up short on seeing the two men perched on the bottom step, passing a cigarette back and forth.

That was yet another thing Quentin had learned — he wouldn’t have called himself a smoker, but he rather liked the routine of it; he and Eliot sharing bits about themselves the same way they shared the smoke that also wreathed both their heads. 

Margo gasped, “Is _this_ the elusive Quentin?” as she glided down the stairs like a beauty queen on stage, stepping onto the sidewalk in front of them. “He’s not _that_ cute,” she grinned slyly, to which Eliot simply parted his hands and rolled his eyes with a raised brow and click of his tongue. 

“Can I help you, dearest?” Eliot casually plucked the cigarette from where Quentin had forgotten about it between his lips.

“It’s Todd,” she scowled in answer, and that seemed to be explanation enough, because Eliot was standing and hauling Quentin to his feet with him. And then Quentin was being ushered up the stairs and into his neighbors’ apartment, sandwiched between two said neighbors, before he could even come up with some type of protest. As Eliot marched away to deal with whoever Todd was, Margo handed Quentin a drink, and began pointing out people as they walked by.

Not sure what else to do, shoulders tucked high around his ears, Quentin sipped slowly at the admittedly delicious concoction, and pretended to absorb each name and bit of gossip sent his way. 

x

Quentin often found himself being cajoled into the apartment across the hall, then.

Despite the loud music and mass of people constantly trailing in and out, he managed to feel comfortable in the space, either Eliot or Margo always at his elbow, offering him a drink and introducing him to people; not pushing for him to have more than the one drink he allowed himself; shepherding him away into a quiet corner of the couch or balcony when he started to spend more time looking at his feet than the people around him. He started to learn the names Margo was always whispering in his ear, and even began having conversations with the people they belonged to, too — more than that, he began _enjoying_ those conversations. 

Still, though, his favorite part of those nights was when Eliot would catch his eye from across the room and nod towards the front door, asking silently if Quentin wanted to step out front and share a smoke. Quentin always nodded back and followed. 

x

One morning, Quentin woke up and couldn’t get out of bed. Just the thought of it exhausted him, and had him rolling over and going back to sleep.

The next day was the same.

And the next.

On the fourth day of his most recent depressive episode, he woke up to the sound of someone pounding on his front door. He almost ignored it, until he caught the sound of Eliot’s voice calling his name.

Wrapped in his blankets, Quentin shuffled towards the door where Eliot’s insistent knocking continued, his words now coming more clearly. “Quentin Coldwater, I know you’re in there! Open up! I need to make sure you haven’t been murdered!” 

Quentin turned back his locks and twisted the knob, pulling the door open an inch, before retreating into his living room and collapsing sideways onto his couch. 

“Q?” Eliot sounded a little nervous as he pushed the door open, stepping through the tiny tiled entrance. “Oh, Q,” the nervousness turned into sympathy once he finally caught sight of Quentin’s bedraggled form. “It this why you won’t have more than one drink?” he asked, managing to come at the issue indirectly. 

“Fucks with my meds,” Quentin mumbled, eyes closed. “S’okay. Should be over soon. Few days.” 

He could hear Eliot walking closer into the room. “Do you need anything?” he asked softly. 

Quentin frowned. His first instinct was to say no, but _logically_ he knew that he’d been lying in bed the last four days, his only form of sustenance the few granola bars he’d had the foresight to stash in his bedside table, along with mouthfuls of water cupped rom the sink when his bladder had become too full to ignore. His therapist had drilled into his head how important self-care was during an episode, reviewed strategies he could utilize to make it a little easier. But still…

”I’m not hungry,” he managed, tears suddenly rolling down his cheeks. And okay, that was new. 

Usually when Quentin fell into one of his episodes, he was apathetic to the point of near catatonia. He didn't cry. Didn’t do much of anything except sleep. And yet the sob that was working its way up his throat begged to differ. He curled into himself tightly. “I’m not — I —“

“Shh-shh-shh. It’s okay,” Eliot’s voice was soft and understanding. “You don’t have to say anything, Q.”

Quentin cried for a while.

He eventually fell asleep to the feeling of Eliot rubbing soft circles into his back. 

He woke up to fingers gently combing through his hair. 

Ate the light sandwich Eliot offered him. 

Fell asleep again to the quiet sound of Eliot chuckling at whatever tv show he’d put on in the background. 

Every time Quentin woke up for the rest of his episode, there was Eliot, offering him something light to eat, asking him if he needed anything else, but otherwise not prying or trying to involve him in conversation. Quentin didn’t have the energy to think about, let alone ask, what reasons Eliot might have had for going out of his way like that. As the stifling weight of exhaustion slowly transitioned to regular, restorative sleep over the next few days, though, he was unspeakably grateful for his neighbors comforting presence. 

All things considered, a week registered as rather short on the Quentin Is Once Again Too Depressed to Function scale. He didn’t want to attribute the relatively quick turn around to Eliot’s presence — depression isn't something that can just be _fixed_ like that — but a large part of him knew that it certainly was a contributing factor. 

He emerged from his bathroom after taking a shower for the first time in seven days to the sight of Eliot sprawled comfortably on his couch, laptop propped on a pillow, reading glasses incongruously perched on the edge of his nose. He looked up at the sound of the door opening and smiled, setting both laptop and glasses aside. “A shower will really make you feel human again, hm?”

Quentin, suddenly being hit with the enormity of the situation, could only nod and watch as he dragged a bare toe across his carpet. 

Eliot made an unhappy noise, and Quentin glanced up through his wet, hanging fringe. “What’s wrong?”

“Besides the obvious?” Quentin tried to joke, but it fell flat on the coffee table. 

“I’m not talking about your depression, Q,” Eliot said firmly. “What has the wheels turning so furiously in that head of yours?”

Quentin moved to the armchair, settling himself on its arm, foot on the cushion and knees drawn up. “Were you here…the whole time?”

“Mostly,” Eliot admitted. “I went back to my own apartment to shower and sleep, but I work from home, so it was easy to stay here and keep an eye on you during the day.”

He seemed so nonchalant about the whole thing, Quentin bubbled with frustration. “ _Why_? Why would you do that? We barely even _know_ each other and you totally went out of your way —“

“Let me stop you there,” Eliot cleared his throat, and Quentin cut himself off with an audible clacking of teeth. “Are you saying we’re not friends?”

“Well, no, we’re friends, I —“

“Okay, so we’re friends. Now tell me, what do friends do for each other?”

Quentin blinked a few times in quiet consternation, “Not waste their time babysitting the mentally unstable!”

“Quentin,” Eliot snapped then, sounding — no, he definitely _was_ mad. “Don’t you talk about yourself with that type of ableist bullshit.”

“I’m - sorry -“

“And don’t apologize. Just tell me: _what do friends do for each other_?”

Quentin swallowed around the lump in his throat. “They…help each other?”

“Exactly. They help each other. Now, I know you’re probably feeling a little overwhelmed because you weren't expecting it, but you got it. And trust me, I was more than happy to give it. Do you hear? So there’s not reason to feel guilty or undeserving. I _wanted_ to help you, because you are my friend, and I care about you and your well being. Got it?”

Quentin could only nod weakly in response. 

Eliot let out a slow breath, and sat back on the couch. “Good. Now go eat dinner, it should be finished reheating in the microwave.”

And what else could Quentin do but listen?

“Thanks,” he mumbled some time later around a mouthful of chicken curry and jasmine rice. He glanced up from where he sat on the other end of the couch, Eliot back to typing away on his laptop. 

Eliot smiled, but continued his work, reaching out to pat Quentin’s feet where they nearly touched his thigh, “Of course. Happy to help, Q.”

That night, Quentin found himself squished between both Margo and Eliot as some bad rom-com played on his tv.

“What about your party?” he wondered allowed as a bowl of popcorn was passed over him.

“I blackmailed Todd into keeping an eye on things,” Margo smirked. “That little asshole actually sent me a dick pic. Can you _believe_?”

“Awe. That’s sad,” Eliot sounded far too delighted. “Show me later?”

“Duh.”

x

Margo and Eliot didn’t just like to party. 

Quentin realized when he had asked weeks back what Eliot did for a living, the answer “hosting nightly soirees” hadn’t really been a joke. 

That wasn’t to say that every night featured a full out rager, but in one form or another, the apartment across the hall always had some type of gathering on any given evening. Dancing and drinking were a favorite, but quite often music was replaced by pizza and a movie. And while Quentin had gotten used to the steady stream of people coming and going, he now knew that there was a core group of people that frequented the apartment more often than the others.

“Why don’t they ever host?” Quentin asked once around a mouthful of smoke, while someone puked into the same bush he’d found Eliot in just a few months before. 

“They don’t have homes to host in,” he replied simply.

So it wasn’t simply that Margo and Eliot liked to party. 

“Friends help each other,” Quentin smiled up at the night sky, taking in its brilliance, aware of Eliot’s eyes on him.

It was that they were offering a safe space for those they cared about to escape to, whenever they might need it.

“Ah, he sees.”

Quentin turned away from the sky to face Eliot, but still felt like he was looking at the stars. “I see _you_ ,” he challenged. 

Eliot’s eyes widened slightly as his lips curled, pleased. He pulled Quentin into him in a sideways hug, and rested his cheek on the top of his head. “You know, Q, I think you just might at that.”

x

Julia came back to the states from her studies abroad full of a renewed passion for Italian art and French cuisine. 

“You look good,” she commented, sounding surprised. 

“I feel good,” Quentin told her honestly. 

“You’re not lonely, here all alone?” Julia asked guiltily. It had been her decision to study abroad that had forced Quentin into finding a new place by himself since, solo, he couldn't afford the flat that they had previously shared. 

Quentin looked past the Chinese takeout containers to take in his apartment. 

The photos Margo had tacked to his wall; some were corny memes, printed from online, but most were polaroids and candids, taken of Quentin and the others he now also called friends — because you’re not a hermit, anymore, good _fuck_ , Q. 

The colorful pillows and blankets Eliot had piled onto his couch — because he was tired of being cold and uncomfortable, _dammit_. 

The small potted plants that had begun taking up residence on most of the available flat surface thank to Alice — because they help with oxygenation, Quentin, and from what he had gathered, that was a good thing. 

The secondhand record player and pile of LPs hastily donated by Kady — since Penny insisted that his taste in music was awful, and if he caught Q humming one more Taylor Swift song he wouldn’t be held responsible for what he did, _holy shit_ , and Kady didn’t want her boyfriend going to jail. 

The new spice rack installed by Josh, as well as his freshly stocked pantry — because this isn’t a kitchen, this is a human rights violation, and Quentin was pretty sure Josh had nearly cried at how empty it was. 

“Lonely? No,” he smiled, returning his gaze to Julia. “I’m not.”

x

Eliot kissed him one Friday night while the gang was having a midnight picnic, and everyone whooped and whistled with shouts of “Finally!” and “About damn time!”

“While we’re at it,” Margo declared before tackling Josh to the ground, and Quentin had to admit that he hadn’t seen that one coming, but it made sense. Judging by the conspiratorial glance Julia and Alice shared, it was something that had been in the works for awhile, too. 

“Bambi!” Eliot gasped, shocked, clutching Quentin to his chest like an old dowress her pearls. “She never even said anything!” He turned to the rest of the group, “Anyone else have news to share? No? Good,” and shrugged off the indignance at being left out of the loop to return to kissing Quentin silly. 

x

x

x

Signing the paperwork that makes them official homeowners was both exhilarating and terrifying, Quentin reflects, hefting a box labeled kitchen through the front door. 

“Which is my room, again?” Kady asks, carting her own armful.

“Um, third one from the landing?” Quentin thinks, ducking under the couch that Penny and Eliot are carrying into the living room.

“Second,” Penny corrects, “Mine is the third,” as he passes by. 

“Second,” Quentin repeats. 

Penny and Kady are still dating. But he’s pretty sure that so are _Julia_ and Penny. He’s trying not to get involved until they’re ready to say anything. As long as everyone is getting along, he’s happy. 

“Thanks,” Kady presses a kiss into Penny’s cheek as she makes her way up the stairs Julia is currently coming down, the two girls smiling as they cross paths. 

“ _Everyone is getting along_ ,” Quentin reassures himself quietly under his breath as he makes his way to the kitchen to unload his box onto a counter. Even him and Alice. That had been awkward for awhile. But she had promised at the time that the only reason she was admitting she had feelings for Quentin, was so that she could move past and get over them. He still wasn’t quite sure how that worked, but everyone had silently agreed to put her room furthest away from his and Eliot’s.

He returns to the front door just in time to see his boyfriend hop onto the top landing of the stairs. “Q, help me out with this?” he motions over his shoulder. 

Margo sashays her way out of one of the many rooms hidden behind angled doorways their new house boasts. “I think that by ‘ _this_ ’ he means ‘ _his dick_ ,’” she snorts, entering the dining room to place a green vase on the mantle of the wooden framed fireplace. 

“ _You’re_ a dick,” Eliot frowns down at her, to which she blows him a kiss, unseen. “Okay, but seriously, Quentin, get up here.”

“What did you need help with?” Quentin asks once he’s followed Eliot into their room where boxes are piled along the walls and a mattress sits in the middle of the floor.

“Oh, Bambi was right,” he grins, reeling Quentin in by the hips. “I was trying to wait until later, but I’m not really known for my patience, am I?”

“Being a homeowner is really doing it for you, huh?” Quentin laughs into a kiss that is no less heady for how slow and leisurely it is. They’ve come to learn each other’s bodies inch by inch over the last two years, but every time Eliot kisses him, Quentin feels like its brand new. He shivers as Eliot pulls back to drag a hot stripe up his neck with his tongue. 

“Is it weird if I say yes?” he pants into Quentin’s neck where he proceeds to pepper openmouthed kisses.

“Not if you keep doing that,” Quentin lets his head fall to the side to provide better access.

“How thoughtful of you,” Eliot laughs, nipping hard enough to sting.

“Well, it’s like you always say,” Quentin spears his fingers through thick curls and tugs, bringing Eliot’s mouth back up to his own. “Friends help each other.” 

“You little -“

Quentin's cackle is cut off short by Eliot trying to swallow his tongue whole.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope I handled Quentin's episode accurately and sensitively enough (his own self-deprecating, aside). I tried to approach it frankly and honestly, with the clear message that mental health issues need to be normalized.
> 
> As I mentioned in the previous fic of this series, my versions of Eliot are much more stable and reliable, in a lot of ways. That trend continues, here, where Eliot not only takes care of Quentin when he needs it most, but where he's also running what essentially functions as a halfway house for troubled millennials out of his living room lol.  
> Having said that, I might one day add a second chapter where we learn more about why the Eliot of this 'verse is so mature. Alternately, that despite that maturity, this Eliot, too, has his own troubles to contend with, and how Quentin in turn helps to take care of Eliot/supports him through those issues. 
> 
> Please let me know if that is something you would be interested in seeing! There are a couple of opportunities, here, to expand on, in fact...penny/julia/kady being another one of them... If I see that enough of you would like to read about these things, I will make it happen! 
> 
> x
> 
>  
> 
> Comments and kudos are chicken soup for the fic's soul!
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> x


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